


Rough Hands, Rough Touch

by Barkour



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Act Six, Alpha Timeline, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake English possesses precisely two scars between his shoulders; they have assumed an unknown personal significance for Dirk Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Hands, Rough Touch

Jake English possesses precisely two scars between his shoulders, the one positioned at a diagonal three centimeters to the left of the base of his nape, the other a fleshy divot at sharp odds with the curve of his right shoulder blade. Other scars exist (among them: a fleck on the inside of the left knee, a toe poorly mended and skewed to the right, a nick in the lobe of the right ear that healed paler than the skin around it), but these two have assumed a special significance; for what reason: unknown. It has become an intellectual exercise to pursue the reason for such.

Context is, of course, the first consideration. In many regards Jake English is emblematic of traditional masculinity, realized in an athletic musculature which appearance is aided by a body type that leans towards the thick, the square, the broad, as well as an avid interest in pursuits often characterized as masculine in nature such as strenuous physical activity, aggressive displays, etc. Flaws present themselves. Jake’s mouth is soft, an image supported not simply by the weight of his lips but the tenor and readiness of his smiles. A certain sensitivity, though unrefined and oft unrealized, informs many actions. Regardless, in the context of such shows of masculinity as defined by common cultural cues, such scarring is to be considered a trophy.

Jake wears thick t-shirts and colorful button-ups with high collars. It is a stylistic quirk from which he rarely deviates.

Another consideration:

If Dirk were to slide his hand up the back of Jake’s shirt, could he locate each scar using only his fingertips? Jake’s skin would be warm, even hot, perhaps damp with the suggestion of sweat. It would be late spring. Jake would have removed first his boots and then his socks that he might walk barefoot through the grass, his crooked toe nearly forced straight by its fellows. He wears a t-shirt, a thin one, soft with age. Green. It pulls tight across his shoulders as he stretches, the muscles thick in his back tensing in fluid accord. Dirk would trace first the hump of the iliac crest then the broad sweep of the latissimus dorsi. Teres major, teres minor, bunched hard as Jake pulls his arms back, his spine arching. His hair falls black against his dark nape.

Dirk would rub his thumb against that divot at the infraspinatus muscle, circle it with his nail. Memorize the delicate fold of flesh. To touch a thing is to begin to understand it. There would be a light sheen of sweat on Jake’s skin, Dirk thinks. He’d taste of salt. If Dirk were to press his tongue flat against that scar and drag it up - lick a long and wet stripe up from the low scar to the high scar, connecting the two points with tongue - with teeth - Jake would say—

In the silence of his room, Dirk strokes his own belly. That thin line of coarse hair rasps against his fingertips. He slips his fingers into his boxers. His penis is hard, swollen with blood. Little to do to bring it fully erect; this is the blessing of adolescence. His hand is dry, and the third pump aches, his fingers curling too tightly about his cock. Dirk closes his eyes. He tightens his fingers again and twists them down. The burn is enough to drive the crease at the corner of Jake’s mouth - that little line ever quirked as if to smile - from his mind, but the spread of Jake’s shoulders, the heft of his arms, remains. Dirk twists again, savagely, and his hips rise up; his dick jerks in his hand. Pre-come dots the head; the next stroke slicks his cock, not nearly enough.

Jake would pull his shirt off over his head. His back would ripple, the pale spot of each scar flashing. Thick, black hair showing in his armpits as he peels the shirt from his brow, his muscles shivering. Dirk turns his thumbnail in against his penis, but the sting is too much; he turns his face away. His cock is heavy in his hand. He slides his thumb down the thick vein on the underside of the shaft, and he thinks of running his thumb up Jake’s nape, up past the diagonal scar and into Jake’s hairline; he thinks of how Jake would laugh and wriggle away, how he’d clap a hand to his neck. _Strider, you know how ticklish I am there; it isn’t sporting to abuse a man’s sensitivities so!_

Dirk pulls viciously and jerks; he arches up; his cock burns against his palm. Hardly sporting at _all_. The calluses on Dirk’s hands are from technical activities, from typing, sewing, metalwork, focused on his fingertips. Jake’s palms are thick with calluses, his fingers rough with them. Dirk spreads his own long fingers wide and presses his thumb against the head of his cock. His hand is softer than Jake’s, but Jake would be gentler, he thinks, unless Dirk asked him. Jake’s hand is wider, his fingers thicker. He’d close his coarse hand around Dirk and he’d tighten his fingers, those heavy fingers, so that Dirk would buck up into Jake’s grip, Jake’s calluses scraping Dirk’s cock, Jake’s short nails but a suggestion.

He does not mean to think of Jake’s mouth again. Soft lips curving in a smile, that crease, the flash of teeth and then of tongue. Dirk’s hand slips - as he drags wet pre-come down his dick, he thinks of: Jake’s hand circling his own, Jake smiling, his shoulders bowing - and he says, “shit,” and he comes hotly all over the back of his hand.

It takes time to regather. Dirk allows the auto-responder to deal with the alert of a new message. Cruel to deprive it of an opportunity to communicate and to expand. Dirk breathes in and then out, and again. The knot in his chest eases. Absently, he touches his thighs. The left is trembling only slightly.

After a moment, he rises. The bathroom is empty; he locks the door. His computer is beeping again and the sound of the alert is a high staccato beat. Dirk turns on the faucet and carefully begins to wash his hands.


End file.
